


Exodus

by luninosity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Banter, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, First Time, Love, M/M, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before Sam says yes to Lucifer, the boys drink some beer, argue, and end up in bed, for the first time ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a missing scene from just before episode 5x22, "Swan Song". Title, opening, and closing lines from The Who's "Baba O'Riley (Teenage Wasteland)".

_the exodus is here  
the happy ones are near  
let’s get together  
before we get much older_  
  
Sam’s sitting on Bobby’s back porch, looking at nothing Dean can see. He’s holding a beer bottle in both hands, not really drinking it, just picking absently at the label and letting small shreds of paper flutter down around his feet. He looks up, startled, when Dean comes over, and scoots to one side, making space between them when Dean sits down. Like he actually thinks Dean wants there to be space between them.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“So.” Dean eyes the limp scraps of paper on the dusty ground, because they’re easier to look at than Sam is right now. “Guess it would sound pretty stupid if I asked if you were all right.”  
  
“Guess it would.”  
  
Dean nods. “So, are you all right?”  
  
Sam actually laughs at that, brief and wry and amused, and Dean mentally pats himself on the back. He can still make Sam laugh.  
  
“I’m going to die tomorrow, Dean,” Sam says, and another small piece of the beer bottle label goes drifting downward.  
  
“Sammy—”  
  
But Sam shrugs, cutting him off. Just as well; Dean honestly has no idea what words might’ve followed Sam’s pronouncement. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay. Obviously. I don’t want to die. But I’m okay with it.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure as hell not!” Dean snaps, and then winces. Bad, bad choice of words.  
  
But Sam doesn’t seem bothered. Mostly, he just sounds resigned. “We both know I’m not coming back from this one, Dean.” He works a fingernail under the last remaining corner of the label, worrying at it. “If I say yes to Lucifer, and I lose, and you have to kill me, I die. If I say yes to Lucifer, and I get control of the body somehow, and I jump into the pit, I die. _Probably_ ,” he adds, seeing Dean’s mouth open. “But I’m okay with it, Dean. Trying to save the world, that’s not a bad way to go out.” He pauses, but Dean can’t bring himself to say anything, so Sam goes on. “Besides, maybe it’s a good thing. A chance to fix some of the mistakes I’ve made. That’s more than a lot of people get, Dean.”  
  
I don’t want you to have it, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Because Sam’s right, and they both know it.  
  
Sam finally peels off the corner piece he’s been picking at, with a small triumphant noise. Most of the label, the identity, is gone now. Dean can’t even tell what kind of beer it used to be.  
  
He watches Sam in silence for a minute. More muscles, less law school, different but still stupid hair. Tired shoulders, and eyes that can charm the pants off everyone in a room but won’t give away anything he’s really thinking or feeling. Sam Winchester, by now, knows better than to trust anybody.  
  
Except he still trusts Dean. And he trusts Dean to do the right thing.  
  
“Jesus,” Dean mutters, under his breath. That’s a lot of goddamn trust floating around, and Sam must be some kind of crazy person to be putting any kind of faith in a guy who’s just as responsible for the Apocalypse as he is. But then, Sam’s a better person than Dean is. Despite or because of everything, he’s the best person Dean knows.  
  
Sam looks over. “You say something?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “You’re a big damn hero, Sammy.”  
  
Sam bites his lip, looks down, doesn’t say anything. Clearly, Dean needs to learn how to be less sarcastic when talking to his brother. Or said brother needs a refresher course in talking to Dean. Probably both.  
  
“I meant it, Sam. You’re gonna—you’re gonna to die to save the world! That’s pretty damn heroic.”  
  
“I’m not Jesus, Dean,” Sam says. “In fact, I think I’m about as far from Jesus as you can get.”  
  
“That’s good,” Dean says. “Because I wouldn’t be sitting on this crappy porch watching Jesus abuse a beer bottle while I’m tryin’ to tell him I’m proud to be his brother.”  
  
The look on Sam’s face is priceless. Absolutely priceless. Dean kind of wishes he had a camera, except taking snapshots is too girly, and anyway Dean will never forget that expression as long as he lives.  
  
“You. I. What?”  
  
“You know,” Dean says, and yanks the beer bottle out of Sam’s hands, because it’s bothering him and Sam’s not drinking it anyway. “It used to be my job to take care of you, right? Watch out for my stupid kid brother? And maybe I didn’t do such a great job, and maybe you and I got screwed up for a while, but you’re always tryin’ to do the right thing. And you’re too damn stubborn to ever give up. And—if you’re gonna die doin’ the right thing, then I’m gonna be proud to go down fighting right next to you, okay?”  
  
Sam’s looking at him now, finally, like he knows everything Dean meant to say even though all the words didn’t make it out right. Maybe they do still speak the same language after all, at least for important things.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, stops, bites his lip. “I—thanks. And okay. I can’t—I don’t think I could do this without you.”  
  
“Yeah, you could,” Dean says, because it’s true, and then adds, “but you’d miss my sexy ass,” because it’ll make Sam laugh again.  
  
And it does.  
  
Dean watches him, and finds himself grinning too. It’s an odd little last gasp of happiness in the face of the apocalypse, but Dean will take what he can get: Sam is still Sam, and they can still be Sam and Dean for a little while longer. It’s not enough, but it’s something.  
  
Sam, amusement still lighting up his face, catches Dean watching him, and they sit there looking at each other for a minute, quiet. It’s a perfect minute.  
  
Which of course means that it won’t last; a voice behind them says, “Well, look at the two of you. I could cut the sexual tension out here with a demon-killing implement of your choice,” and Dean shuts his eyes and says, “Hello, Crowley.”  
  
“Hello, yourselves.” Crowley yawns, elaborately. “You boys probably want to be getting to bed. Sam’s got a big day tomorrow.”  
  
“Thank you for the reminder,” Sam grumbles.  
  
“Hey.” Crowley spreads his arms, looking innocent. “I only meant you should go forth and enjoy yourself. Do whatever you like. It’s your last night on earth; you should be able to sleep with your brother if you want to.”  
  
“What—I don’t—no—” Sam splutters, and glances at Dean, and then away from Dean, who says, to Crowley, “Get your demon ass out of here. Don’t you have virgins to despoil or something?”  
  
“As a matter of fact I have five perfectly nubile young men awaiting me at the Las Vegas Hilton,” Crowley says, unruffled. “You, Dean, have one right here. Of course, he’s not my type, but each to his own. Good night, boys.” And he disappears, leaving behind uneasy mental images and even more uncomfortable, and near-palpable, embarrassment.  
  
“Um—” Dean starts, and at the same time Sam jumps to his feet, almost tripping over them in his haste, and says, “Dean, you know I wouldn’t—I’d never—”  
  
“Right. Right! Neither would I. Because that would be...repulsive.”  
  
“Hey!” Sam actually looks offended.  
  
“Shut up,” Dean says. “You know what I mean. Horrifying.”  
  
“Disturbing. And the fact that I don’t sleep with every woman who crosses my path doesn’t mean it would be repulsive. _Dean_.”  
  
“No, you get laid so rarely you’re practically a monk. Disgusting. We should try it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Well, we deal with practically every other repulsive, horrifying, and disturbing thing around for a living, right?”  
  
“Right,” Sam agrees. “Kind of our area of expertise.”  
  
“So this would be like research. Or something.”  
  
“Gathering scientific data.”  
  
“Empirical observation.”  
  
“Wow, impressive vocabulary, Dean.” They’re standing very close to each other now, and Sam’s skin is practically radiating heat even though it’s dark out, and Dean knocks over the forgotten beer bottle when he inches forward.  
  
“Just for that,” Dean says, “I’m not gonna sleep with you. And you’re gonna miss out on the best night of your life.”  
  
“I thought we agreed to stop lying to each other,” Sam says, and then his mouth is on Dean’s, and Dean’s whole world is swallowed up by Sam, in Sam, the taste of chapstick and beer and Sammy. Sam is an aggressive kisser, sure about what he wants and what he’ll take, and that’s just fine with Dean. Sam can have anything he wants. Sam can always have anything he wants from Dean, anything Dean has left to give.  
  
“So,” Sam breathes against Dean’s skin, pausing in his effort to taste as much of Dean’s mouth as possible, “this could be my last night on earth. Want to go upstairs?”  
  
“ _That’s_ your pickup line?” Dean grumbles. “Really, Sam? I think I deserve better than that.”  
  
“Answer the question,” Sam says, and does something clever with his tongue. Possibly he knows more about sex than Dean gave him credit for.  
  
“Upstairs is good,” Dean manages, and then neither of them says anything else, not until they’re in the room, not beyond names and moans and whispers, not until afterwards, when they’re lying exhausted and sweaty and blissful in Sam’s bed and Dean’s wondering why it took him so many years to figure out that Sam is _awesome_ in bed. And on a chair. And up against the wall.  
  
“Dean?” Sam sounds just as tired as Dean is, and just as happy. “You were right.”  
  
“Course I was. What was I right about?”  
  
“Well. You did promise me the best night of my life, remember?” Sam’s blushing. Dean can _hear_ the blush, which he didn’t think was possible. It’s fascinating.  
  
“Just because of that last time, don’t think you have to be the girl here, Sammy.”  
  
“Jerk. What I’m trying to say is...” Sam tips his head up to look at Dean in the dark, and the shadows hide the lines of his face, but his eyes are earnest. “...it’s not just the sex. Which was awesome. But you know. I mean. It’s you. And me. And this...it was really good, Dean. It was...” He runs out of words, and stops.  
  
Dean sighs, and decides to accept the chick-flick moment for what it is. “Yeah, I know. Me too. All that stuff.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really. Now shut up and get—” Dean peers blearily at the clock. “—two hours of sleep.”  
  
Sam nods against his shoulder, drapes an arm and a leg over Dean like he’s trying to hold them together, and goes to sleep within minutes, which Dean takes some pride in: he wore Sammy out.  
  
And he thinks, just before he falls asleep with Sam’s head on his shoulder, about promises. About the next day, and how he’ll be there, fighting at his brother’s side. He’s promised Sammy that, and Dean keeps his promises to Sam, always.  
  
He’s promised himself something, too. Sam might be ready to die, but Dean isn’t ready to let him. So he’ll do whatever he has to, to make sure Sammy stays around.  
  
He repeats that promise now, silently, to himself and to a sleeping Sam, in the quiet humid darkness of Bobby’s spare bedroom. And Dean keeps his promises to Sam.  
  
Always.  
  
  
 _I don’t need to fight_  
 _to prove I’m right_  
 _I don’t need to be forgiven..._


End file.
